


A Dish Served Cold

by Garrae



Series: Cool For Cats [5]
Category: Castle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Cats, F/M, Holidays, PWP, Romantic Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 05:29:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: Kate Beckett had quite definitely taken unfair advantage of him, Castle thinks. She'd heard all his thoughts and deepest secrets. Still, revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold, and this revenge will be very, very sweet.Fluffy PWP in the Cool for Cats universe.As insane as ever.





	1. Chapter 1

“You know,” Castle says lazily, shortly after Hallowe’en, “you spied on me.”

“You said that. I don’t agree.”

“Oh, you did. I don’t think that was very fair. You knew everything I was thinking and I hadn’t a clue about you. That’s not equal.”

“All’s fair in love and war.” She smiles sleepily, and stretches languorously. “Which would you like the rest of this evening to be?”

“That sounds like blackmail to me.”

“Not at all.” She smirks.

Castle pulls her over him and proceeds to prove that love is much nicer than war. She wiggles seductively and encourages him to prove it in a number of ways, all of which are very pleasurably satisfying.

Castle, however, is not entirely satisfied. He feels, quite reasonably, that Beckett had a very unfair advantage over him, however gorgeous and pettable Onyx-Beckett had been and however gorgeous and pettable sexy-human Beckett is right now. He’d told Onyx everything he’d never dared tell Beckett, and, okay, it had all turned out pretty damn well in the end (he strokes over the beautifully naked, snuggly results) but she’d still _cheated_.

He cuddles her in (after all, who wouldn’t cuddle a naked Kate Beckett?) and thinks about that. Cheating is unfair. Snuggling up to him as a very pettable cat, sneakily demanding affection, and then draping bonelessly over him as he petted – now then. Now, _then_. There’s a thing that’ll repay research. Because for the last two hours Beckett’s been purring and making sexy noises that bear a considerable resemblance to her cat’s purring whenever he petted Onyx. Hmmm.

Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold, and this revenge will be very, very sweet.

He’s not being mean, either. Just like Beckett had been sneaky and spied on him to move them into a relationship so that he’s very, very happy, he’s going to be sneaky and research some interesting discontinuities in Onyx’s behaviour as compared to Beckett’s, in order to make her very, very happy.

He smiles sweetly to himself and wriggles them both into a very much better alignment, involving Beckett being rolled over. She reaches up, tugs his head down, and takes his mouth in a fiercely possessive kiss. Castle fights back with equal possessiveness, and adds a wickedly erotic slick of fingers through the blazing heat between her legs, which leaves her mewing and writhing frantically and reaching for his hard length to turn him, he is sure, into just as much of a hot mess as she is.

Sounds good to him.

Beckett takes him delicately and – _oh god just like that_ – evilly to leave him gasping and flexing against her and finally finally _finally_ guides him home where he already knows he fits so utterly perfectly and she moves and _oh god yes_ he touches her just where she needs him to and she cries his name and he rasps out hers and they’re one: joined, united, two made one flesh.

“You still spied on me, and cheated,” he says later, back to cuddling her as close as he can.

“All in a good cause,” she flirts airily. “If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’d have got you eventually,” Castle says arrogantly. “After all, you wanted to be caught. My Beckett-cat.”

“Conceited much? I caught you. You were moping at home wishing and not doing anything about it. If I hadn’t sneaked” –

“Oh, so you admit sneaking?”

“Never denied it – up to you we’d have continued dancing round each other for years.”

“Still not fair.”

“It worked. The ends justify the means.”

_Do they indeed? Mmmm. That’s good to know._

* * *

Castle begins his research with some careful thinking the next day, since there are no interesting corpses and he can hardly carry out _this_ research in the bullpen. He thinks very carefully over the last few weeks. He discounts the two or three days in which Beckett had been badly hurt. All she did then was sleep and snuggle.

Now. He’d petted her ears the very first time Onyx had shown up, and she’d purred, and then lain soft and lax on his shoulder and purred continuously.   She certainly hadn’t wanted put down. There had been just the slightest hint of a growl when he’d had to. So she’d certainly liked her ears being petted. She’d liked it each other time, too. Hmmm. He evolves the first stage of a plan. Pet Beckett-Onyx around the ears, and then persuade her to change back for some thoroughly human lovemaking, and along that extremely pleasurable way, discover whether she’s already aroused or simply happy. Perfect.

What else had she liked? She’d liked being brushed. Hmmm. Same process. Okay, that’s good. His plan is fine, for now. And once he’s sure of his conclusions, then he’ll work out some delightful revenge.

He bounces happily through the rest of the day until he can bounce off to Beckett’s apartment after dinner. Alexis being on a school trip, he needn’t be home for three days, if he doesn’t want to be.

Beckett is bored, tired and, she admits, somewhat headachy as a consequence of a long day of paperwork. Castle instantly spots an opportunity in the guise of caring concern (well, he _does_ care and he is concerned, so it’s not a _lie_ ) to start his researches without any difficult dancing round reasons for wanting Beckett to be Onyx.

“Turn into Onyx, then, and I’ll pet you,” he suggests.

She peers doubtfully at him, slight creases in her brow, her eyes a little dull. “You think?”

“Sure. C’mon. You said that you liked being Onyx if the day was tiring” – she had – “so if I wasn’t here I bet you’d have turned into her already” – she nods, carefully – “so just do that and then I’ll stroke you till you feel better.” Which is certainly one way of putting it. “Some nice snuggling is just what you need.” Likewise.

Beckett regards him slightly blearily for a few seconds, and then is abruptly Onyx. She pads delicately on to his lap: a midnight cover of elegant laxity, and settles herself, paws tucked in, tail curled neatly around her body, the end twitching very slightly. The cat sighs quietly and closes her eyes. Her ears relax.

Castle strokes gently along the silky pelt, not taking any – er – _research-oriented_ actions as yet, always moving in the direction the fur lies, spreading his fingers wide to cover her flank to her spine, moving from nape to the very tip of her tail, slowly and soothingly. His beautiful cat-Beckett emits a tiny, satisfied mew, and relaxes further, almost boneless. He keeps petting, and finds that even though he _knows_ it’s his badass Beckett, stroking the cat soothes him too. He’s not so soothed that he’s forgotten his plan, though. Oh no. He’ll just delay it a little while he performs the feline equivalent of massaging her temples. There’s no hurry. They’ve got all evening, and all night, and longer.

“I really like this,” he says. “You all soft and pettable and contented.” Onyx twitches her tail. “I can stroke you as much as we like no matter who’s around and no-one would know it’s you.” Her ears flick. His hands glide over her, and she begins to purr softly.

Castle takes this as a signal to change it up a little, and alters his petting to start at her skull, very lightly and briefly fondling her ears at the start of each stroke. She is shortly so totally relaxed that she might as well be a fur rug, each limb limp and her head between her front paws, eyes shut. Even her tail has stopped twitching. He files this interesting result into the little patch of his brain marked _best ways to seduce Beckett_ , and very gradually alters the pattern of his petting so that it's finally concentrated around her ears and nowhere else. His Onyx-rug is now purring continuously and in a way that closely resembles a thoroughly aroused human-Beckett.

“Better?” he asks. “Wanna come back so I can kiss you? I really wanna kiss you.” He drapes Onyx over his chest, which will ensure that when Beckett is back she is also draped over his chest in a perfectly kissable position. He’s adjusting to the geometry of shape-shifting girlfriends very rapidly. Then again, he prides himself on both his suavity and his adaptability.

Onyx mews. It isn’t exactly agreement.

“C’mon. You’ve had all this petting and I want some too.”

There’s another mew, which doesn’t sound anything like as snarky as Beckett normally would when he play-whines, and then suddenly he has a lapful of Beckett not a lapful of fur. She kisses him deeply, and wriggles as close as can be. Castle, nothing loth, kisses her back, smooth and slow, and ups the ante by removing her top and not incidentally stroking gently over every inch of skin as he goes; to which Beckett retaliates by opening all of his shirt buttons and likewise stroking the nicely firm muscle underneath, with particular attention to his flat nipples.

Beckett, even changed back, is already totally blissed-out and relaxed from Castle’s ear-petting of Onyx. She’s happily floating in a sea of contented sensuality, two orgasms to the good already (not that Castle knows that), and very pleased to undertake some mutually erotic petting and then end up in bed. She is already addicted to petting her Castle, in every form, but human will do for now.

Thinking of which…just because she’s blissfully relaxed doesn’t mean that she can’t apply some smoothly sexy actions to Castle. She glides her hand down his torso, not ceasing to kiss him, and arrives at his belt. She takes her time undoing it, so that he’s wholly aware of her actions. He comes to full attention, as it were, and smiles lazily.

“Is that a hint?”

“Could be…”

“Mmm. Maybe I should give you a hint or two in return?”

“Mmm.”

Beckett nestles into Castle’s very receptive form in a wholly enticing fashion, purrs softly and kisses him again, making her views clear. Her belt succumbs to Castle’s teasingly soft fingers. His pants button succumbs to hers, as does his zip. So does hers to him. Both of them are unhurried, softly arousing rather than the hot, hard desire that has previously overtaken them; a new way to play. It’s still all so very new, and there are so many things they could explore; so much time to explore them in. All of their lives, he hopes and believes.

Beckett’s naughty hands have achieved entrance and are tantalising him in a most unfair way. Castle, through a fog of complete lust and sheer desire, lifts her very slightly and slips her pants from her hips to lie disregarded on the floor, giving him free access to a pair of extremely minimal silky bikini panties and all the delights below. He explores, much as she’s exploring him, murmuring into her ear in a deep bedroom baritone which he just _knows_ will send sensual shivers down her senses. It does: she squirms even closer to him: skin on skin, and there’s barely room for her hands (not that this is stopping her) but he has freedom to tease.

He sneaks under the edge of the delicate fabric and ghosts his fingers over her. Another tiny datum is stowed in the Beckett-box in his brain. She’s soaked, and from her noises she’s far more sensitised already than he’d expect. He pays very close attention to fine details. Mmmm. Not proof, but certainly suggestive. Mmmm.

He returns to Beckett-petting, since she’s certainly petting him, and when they’re both all petted-up, smiles sleepily.

“Let’s take this elsewhere.”

“Mm? I’m happy here. You feel pretty happy, too.”

“I’d be even happier in bed. So would you.” He slips his finger into her. “Wouldn’t you?” he says over her gasp, and gazes hotly at her.

“Might – _ooohhhh_ – be persuaded.”

 _Now might that be a challenge, Beckett_? Castle rarely fails to rise to a challenge, especially sexual, and even more especially from Beckett. Now is not going to be an exception. He stops playing with her, stands and collects her up, and rakishly sweeps her into the bedroom.

“Where were we?” he asks lazily, and grins down. “Somewhere like here, wasn’t it?” He moves his fingers delicately, and watches her squirm. Her shirt departs, her bra follows, and Castle turns to one of his favourite uses of his mouth: kissing Beckett’s beautifully pert breasts. It’s especially fun because he can reduce her to mewling incoherence in no time, and mewlingly incoherent Beckett is just plain wonderful. Of course, she likes it too. She likes it a _lot_. So much, in fact, that she’s making those sexy noises that mean she’s right on the edge and then she’s over.

“My turn,” she purrs, and takes him in hand to feather and glide, tantalise and tease and then slither down to take him in mouth and make him groan and growl and rasp her name and come himself.

Later, much later, Castle falls asleep wholly satisfied, next to Beckett, likewise wholly satisfied, and when he wakes finds the ebony form of Onyx tucked into his neck. The obvious thing to do is to wake his gorgeous feline by fondling her ears, and checking his conclusions has, of course, absolutely nothing to do with it. So he does. Onyx opens a green eye, and regards him coolly, which eye, as he continues to fondle, closes again and is accompanied by a continuous purr and pushing of her silky black head into his hands.

“Come up,” Castle says, and slathers Onyx over his bare chest, where she lies laxly languorous. He pets less intensively, suspecting her lethargy’s source. “Come back, Beckett. Let’s play.”

She reappears, still wearing the shimmer of sexy nightwear that she’d – eventually – put on and that had – even more eventually – stayed on. He strokes it: irresistibly touchable and even more irresistibly removable. Eventually. For now, he simply strokes smoothly down over her ass, into the back of her lean thighs, as far down as he can reach and then back up to the hot cleft.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Your dreams must have been really interesting…”

“Mrrr?” she says back, and presses into his hand.

“Or there’s something else going on. Something you’ve been hiding. _I_ think you’ve been keeping secrets from me,” Castle says annoyingly. “More secrets. You’re far too secretive, Detective Beckett. It’s very unkind. Anyone would think you didn’t trust me.”

“Do so,” Beckett grumbles.

“But you’re keeping secrets,” Castle whines. “You shouldn’t do that.”

“Can if I like.”

“I’m going to discover them,” Castle points out.

“Go right ahead. Who says I’m keeping any secrets?”

“You kept Onyx a secret,” he says, unanswerably. “And you’re keeping something else a secret.”

Beckett mumbles something unflattering under her breath on the subject of overly-curious writers.

“But right now there’s something that’s not a secret at all,” he says, and draws a line through her overheated, fluid centre. “You want me.”

“ _You_ want _me_ ,” she replies, and proves her point on his hard thickness.

“Let’s have each other, then,” and he pulls her over him and she slides down on to him and this is the best way to wake up _ever_.

* * *

Later, having coffee and breakfast (which Castle, attuned to Beckett’s inability to purchase foodstuffs, had brought with him), he affects a great air of _I’ve guessed your secret_ which is sure to annoy Beckett immensely, and smirks. As he had expected, it takes her less than two minutes to become irritated by it.

“What is it, Castle?” she snips. “You’re behaving like you found El Dorado and won’t share.”

“I found Nikki Heat, which had much the same effect,” Castle says annoyingly.

Beckett grouses indeterminately. “I need to go to work,” she points out, which is disappointing. “Shift finishes at six, if we don’t get a new body dropping.”

“More paperwork?”

“Yeah.”

She briskly pulls herself together, slips into the coat which Castle is holding for her, favours him with a toe-curling kiss, and smirks. “That’ll make sure you don’t forget me when you’re writing.”

“Why, Detective Beckett! That almost sounded like something I would say.”

She clacks out. Castle, already in possession of a key so that he can come and go as he pleases (after all, Beckett can come and go at his as _she_ pleases simply because of the cat flap, so fair is fair) locks up behind himself, and ambles home perfectly happily. Observation schedule one: complete. Theory one, proved.

Some time later, he has located the brush which he used to groom Onyx for the photos to show Beckett. That wasn’t fair, either. She pretended she had no idea and secretly she knew exactly what Onyx looked like. Humph. He pouts. Then he remembers his plan. Then he thinks cheerfully for a while, and remembers even more cheerfully that Beckett is due some leave and she’d promised that they would go up to her dad’s cabin and let the panthers out to play _properly_.

He can’t wait.

* * *

Three weeks later, although the weather is unlikely to be clement in the Adirondacks, Castle and Beckett are on their way to the cabin for a few days of vacation. Montgomery had looked at Beckett’s accrued leave, managed not to swear, and told her not to reappear until it was in a more reasonable state, since he has no desire to deal with the union rep even if it is all her own fault. Beckett is, naturally, driving. Her excuse this time is that (one) the roads are entirely unsuitable for Castle’s expensive cars and (two) she knows the way and he doesn’t.

When they get there, Castle leans on the car for a minute or two and simply stares. He’s not a country boy, to say the least – itinerant theatre folks don’t go out of towns, or cities, and once he was a success he’d stayed in the glitz and glam of Manhattan and signing tours in large metropolises. Therefore, he has never seen an upstate cabin, and it is not at all what he expected. In fact, he’d rather expected a Little House in the Big Woods type building: that being his only point of reference (and only because he’d read them to Alexis).

It’s not like that at all. Well, it partly is. It’s a log cabin, two storeys. But it has a porch with swing seats, and steps down to a small river. Castle loves it instantly. It calls to a sense of history and place that he’d never known he had. Beckett opens up, and it’s homely and cosy inside, with a wood burning stove and old-fashioned décor: upstairs there’s a large, timber framed bed which they waste no time in making.

“This is gorgeous,” he comments, as they smooth the quilt.

“We used to come every summer.” She smiles at the memories. “Dad taught me to fish out there. Since then, I’ve been here on my own.” Her smile turns liquid and open. “This’ll be the first time I’ve had company in years. It’s going to be great.”

Castle hugs her. He knows what she isn’t saying: that she came up here to let her panther out to play, which – until now – she couldn’t share with anyone. Even though outside the window the clouds are lowering and rain imminent – or sleet, more likely – they’ll light the fire and curl up on the rug and they can be happily feline together. He’s looking forward to that.


	2. Chapter 2

And indeed that’s what happens. He brings in wood while Beckett sets a delicious smelling stew simmering, and then she shows him how to lay the stove and light it. It’s comfortingly domestic: harking back to a much older time, and after dinner, they change to panther and lie together near the stove, warm, cosy, and snuggled. Beckett is so rarely her larger form that he forgets how sleekly lethal it is: slim compared to his massive bulk, but utterly deadly.

Except for now, with their tails entwined and their bodies so close that the fur merges and they can hear and feel each other’s hearts beating. Beckett nestles her head into his shoulder, and they are simply quiet and still together: peace all around them. The woods are not silent: the wind rustles, and Castle’s feline hearing can pick up small sounds of animals, the rippling of the water and then, shockingly loud, the thundering of heavy rain; changing the smells from outside. He snuggles closer to Beckett, and purrs: a deep rumble in his chest. She turns her head – her eyes are green, but his have always stayed their familiar blue – and pushes it into the muscles of his neck, nipping lightly.

She wants to play. How nice. Castle looks lazily at her, and uses one massive paw to try to flip her on to her back: a little gentle roughhousing which they’ll both enjoy as panthers. She bats at him, standing up and circling him, patting with a soft paw, claws retracted. He stands and pats back, stalks her a touch, looming in her peripheral vision, treading heavily after her as she slips away from him. Finally he pounces when she’s back on the rug, lands across her and pins her down, jaws around her neck as any alpha male big cat would do, and she purrs and sighs and relaxes under him and suddenly she’s Beckett-human who’s playing with his ears and he changes and then the rug is put to uses which it surely didn’t expect.

The shower is efficient, and the big bed exceptionally comfortable, and Castle sleeps better than he can remember with Beckett snuggled against him and the old-fashioned quilt and – surely feather? – pillows around his head. It’s not as if he has problems sleeping, either – just that the clean fresh air and lack of city noise leave him totally refreshed. He dozes off again.

The next time he wakes there is the insinuating smell of bacon, the sizzle of possible pancakes, and very definitely the aroma of coffee. He bounces out of bed and downstairs to find breakfast in progress, Beckett looking happily ravenous, and the table set.

“If you’d slept much longer I’d have eaten all your bacon,” she grins. Castle fakes a fainting gesture, and gasps theatrically. “C’mon. Sit down and eat up, and then we can go out.”

The weather has cleared. Castle suspects that it is a lot colder outside than the cosy cabin, but it’s sunny, and panthers have warm fur coats. He sits down and they make a very good breakfast, which they will undoubtedly run off shortly.

Castle is exceedingly glad of his thick fur coat. His nose twitches as he pads out of the cabin, discovering a whole host of interesting smells. Beckett locks up, shivers and changes, stalks down the steps, turns and bares her teeth in a coughing laugh – and takes off. He’s after her in an instant, but she’s _fast_ , and she’s sneaky, and she knows the area and he doesn’t. She’s disappeared.

He thinks, sitting on his haunches in a handy, sunlit clearing. Then he listens, cocking his ears this way and that, and discovers a patch of silence. He sniffs the air, and then begins to stalk her scent and silent surroundings, padding darkly through the trees. He finds her, sitting elegantly lethal at the edge of the river: a black marble statue – until the wind shifts a little and she scents him and _moves_ – but now he has her trail and is on her tail as she stretches out, racing through the woods until his greater stride length brings him alongside her and instincts take over and he brings her down, pinning her to the ground and only just not carrying on to take her. They’re really going to need to discuss that, because she smells totally aroused and ready – and he certainly is – but they’ve never discussed sex in any form but human and they really, really should.

Instead, he nips assertively at her haunch and swats her rump: indicating his displeasure at her running off, and she cough-laughs at him again, rises, swats _him_ which is entirely unfair, and streaks away again. He catches her up at the door of the cabin, staying feline until she’s opened the door and they are inside – it’s cold – and then catching her into his arms and kissing her hard and just a little roughly until she’s breathing harder and soft in his grasp and utterly ready for him.

By the time they reach the bedroom the cabin is bestrewn with clothing, some of which retains all the buttons with which it started.   Neither of them care. Beckett falls on to the bed and pulls Castle over her, not waiting for gentleness: takes his mouth as hard as he had, a moment before, ravaged hers, wriggles once, twice, beneath him and rises to his thrust. It’s short, fast and hard and rough, and while there’s a lovebite blooming on Beckett’s shoulder there’s a matching one on Castle’s and his back is scratched. They collapse together, limbs entangled, both limp.

“Can we play chase again?” Castle says very hopefully.

“Tomorrow,” Beckett yawns, and turns over to flop across him. “Not now.”

“Okay,” he agrees amiably. “When I can find my knees, I’ll brush Onyx, if you like? You’re all tousled. It’s very sexy, though. Thinking of which…um… when I caught you out in the woods… um… we should really talk about that. Before tomorrow. Because chasing you down and catching you like that was really, really hot. I mean, _really_ hot.”

“I noticed,” Beckett says dryly. “You were – hmm – difficult to miss.”

“I’m glad you didn’t miss my substantial assets.” There is a growl. “Didn’t you think it was really hot too?” Castle asks, sex infusing his words. “Your pheromones said you did. I could scent you – and that was pretty difficult to miss too.” She colours delicately. “You did,” he says with smug satisfaction. Beckett colours up further. “So we should decide what to do about it.” He strokes across her naked back. She curves into his touch, just as Onyx does, bonelessly flexible. “Because if you don’t wanna, then we should make sure I catch you here. It’s too cold to be disporting our human selves outside. You wouldn’t want me to freeze. It wouldn’t be satisfying.”

Beckett snorts. “Who says I’m going to let you catch me? If you can’t catch me that’s your problem.”

“I thought we just proved I could catch you. We’re talking about what happens after I’ve caught you.”

She grumbles under her breath, then speaks.

“I don’t know. I looked it up” –

“You did?” –

“Might as well. I knew you’d bring it up.”

“You love it when I bring things up,” he notes salaciously. “Ow! That’s not nice.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” she carries on unsympathetically, “it looks painful. I don’t do pain.”

“You do pain on me,” Castle mutters.

“Only if you ask nicely.” Castle hears a distinct snigger, and vows that Beckett will pay for that. In the nicest possible way, of course.

“Okay,” he says.

“But since there are still cats being born every minute, I’m guessing the _cats_ might not find it painful.”

“Okay – er, _what_?”

There is a pause.

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

“We don’t have to.”

“I know. But…” she smiles wickedly, “…we should try it. Just once. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Castle gleeps. He’d thought she was _reluctant_. “We could just change straight back if it hurt.”

“That could be embarrassing. We’d never manage simultaneous timing. And getting it wrong would be really… icky.”

“Yeah,” Castle agrees fervently. “Ugh. Same form only.” She nods vehemently.

“But not till tomorrow. You promised me brushing,” she entices, and is abruptly Onyx, curled on his chest and purring quietly.

Castle’s stomach doesn’t purr, it growls. Loudly. “Let’s have lunch first, and put the stove on, and be cosy all afternoon. And you know, I really won’t mind a _bit_ if you don’t get dressed again… ow! Stop that.”

Beckett slithers very intently all across him and then, most unkindly, pulls on underwear – it’s very pretty, but it’s totally unnecessary – and casual tee and pants. “Lunch,” she says, and exits, to be heard descending the stairs and investigating the kitchen.

Castle takes a few moments longer to compose himself and dress. When he gets downstairs, he’s instructed to bring in some more wood and light the stove. He puts the brush conveniently close to a large and comfortable chair near the stove, and does as he’s told. The fact that carrying a heavy basket of logs around shows off his flexing biceps has nothing to do with it at all. He can see Beckett sneaking ogles out of the corner of his eye, and plays up to her heated glance.

Lunch does not take long to prepare: a thick spiced pumpkin soup, warmed rolls and butter; some apple pie and cream for dessert. For someone who never knowingly cooks at home, Beckett has provided ample quantities of delicious, yet simple and homely, food, and is proving pretty adept at preparing it. They give it the time and respect the food deserves, and tidy up afterwards without hurrying. The weather is less pleasant now than earlier, and tip-taps of rain are already smearing the windows.

The stove is stoked and adjusted, the cabin has become warm and cosy, and Castle arranges himself in the rocking chair with his laptop to hand should Onyx-Beckett fall asleep draped over his shoulder, as she is wont to do in feline form after petting and brushing. If his theory (and her reaction when he’d brushed her out of her bad mood when he theorised about natural fabric levels) is correct, it’s because petting her ears and brushing are leaving her totally post-orgasmic, which in human form leaves her sleepy (eventually) and cuddlesome. He is already addicted to cuddlesome Beckett: just as he’d originally (Beckett apparently unavailable) fallen in love with beautiful, pettable, affectionate and cuddlesome Onyx; so he loves the same aspects of his extraordinary Beckett. And all the other aspects too.

While he’s been thinking, Onyx has prowled across the floor and has perched herself on his lap, curling flexibly into a position which clearly indicates her desire to be brushed. Castle has a considerable desire to oblige. She drapes over him, Castle begins to brush, and Onyx begins to purr: softly at first, then more forcefully, and then continuously. Her eyes are shut, her tail curled around her, and her ears loose and relaxed. She’s – Castle thinks – entirely blissed out. He stops brushing, and she mews at him with a touch of complaint. He begins again.

Quite a lot of brushing later, Castle stops and is not complain-mewed at. He rearranges Onyx so that she’s asleep on his shoulder, where she’s warm and snuggly, and reaches for his laptop. Some considerable while after that, she wakes up and purrs in his ear, which makes him jump. The laptop is put out the way, and Beckett appears on his knee, nestled into his neck and nibbling mischievously.

“You were asleep,” he points out.

“It’s my vacation. I do sleep.”

“Such a cat. Sleeping all day. Does that mean you’ll be up all night?”

“Shouldn’t that be you?”

“Could be arranged,” he smirks.

“I wasn’t sleeping when you couldn’t find me this morning,” she murmurs seductively. “Maybe you should do a bit more sleeping.”

“It’s so much more fun to be awake and make sure that you’re tired out,” he rasps back. “I can tire you out in _so_ many ways.”

“Promise?”

“Surely. Dinner first, then playtime.”

“Being parental _here_ is entirely inappropriate.”

“Who’s being parental? I’m never parental.”

“Barely adult, most of the time,” Beckett snarks.

“That wasn’t what you said earlier. More like _oh God yes all man_. You _definitely_ said man.”

Beckett mutters darkly. Clearly she doesn’t like being quoted back at herself.

“And dinner first is simply so that you don’t faint with hunger.” He smirks evilly. “Fainting with desire is expected.”

“Conceited much?”

“It’s not conceit when it’s true. You’ll be overcome by my manly talents.”

Beckett snorts. Castle, offended, slips a hand under her t-shirt and caresses her spine, and she softens and purrs.

“See? All contented and purring again. Just how you should be.” It feels so good to be petting her again that he simply keeps on doing it.

The evening passes comfortably. Both of them change: Castle to the huge panther, Beckett returning to Onyx and positioning herself between his huge front paws where she feels cosseted and protected. Not that she needs it, but sometimes it’s nice for her to have someone else doing the protecting, Castle thinks, and preens himself that _he’s_ the one on whom she relies for that to be the case. She stays happily nestled in until bedtime, and even then, much later, both sated and satisfied, she cuddles in some more. Fortunately Castle loves cuddling her as much as she has found she loves being cuddled.

She sleeps better than she ever has, judging by her bright eyes when she wakens and her almost-enthusiasm for the day even before they’ve had coffee. Astonishing, Castle thinks. Pre-coffee Beckett is normally as friendly as a rabid wolf. This morning, she’s only mildly irritable, barely even titchily tetchy.

“C’mon,” she encourages. “Eat up and let’s go out.”

Ah. Beckett wants to play chase again. How nice. He smiles wolfishly at her, and munches on his pancakes. He’d better fuel up. This morning is going to be energetic.

Beckett isn’t quite tapping her fingers by the time he’s made a good, but rapid, meal – but it’s close.

“Ready?”

“You sure are,” he smirks. She growls. “Let’s go.”

As yesterday, she locks up, changes – then swipes at him to swat him and then takes off at full stretch. Castle, never one to make an effort before it’s necessary, pads softly and slowly into the woods and then finds a nice, almost warming, patch of sunlight to enjoy while he’s triangulating on possible Beckett-locations. He works out whereabouts she is, and slinks off to stalk her. Something about stalking panther-Beckett appeals in a very visceral way to panther-Castle.

He doesn’t have much trouble finding her. The wind is blowing back towards the cabin, and her scent is very strong. He sneaks up to a small clearing, where she’s sitting in the sun, circles around to come at her from behind, and pounces.

And misses. She’s streaking away. He recovers his footing (pawing? Surely not?) and hightails it after her, becoming more aroused with every yard that he covers.

This time, when he finally overtakes her and brings her down, they let it happen, both far too excited and aroused to stop. Cat form sex, it transpires, is a lot of fun for cats, and the physical adaptations of a cat are extremely interesting. It certainly seems that feline-Beckett appreciates them.

They lie in the weak sunshine, purring occasionally at each other, and eventually pad back to the cabin for lunch.

“That was fun,” Beckett says, her eyes wickedly glinting.

“I’ll chase you any time you like.” Castle’s eyes are glinting too.

After lunch it’s still sunny, but neither of them want to go anywhere. They occupy the swing seats on the porch; the weak sunshine and warm clothing enough for comfort: Beckett with a book and her woolly-socked toes tucked up under her; Castle with his laptop and producing a constant stream of tapping. So passes the afternoon.

After dinner, Castle decides that it’s time to start trying to tease (in _so_ many ways) the truth about ear-fondling and brushing out of Beckett. Coffee arrives at the small couch, barely big enough for both of them, forcing them (as if force were ever needed) to nestle together. Perfect.

He starts with desultory chit-chat about anything that they’re interested in (which between them, is nearly everything. Castle is congenitally curious about the whole wide world, and Beckett, while not so curious, certainly takes considerable interest in the events around her.) and gradually works it around to the earlier events.

“I really liked stalking you,” he says.

“If I were you,” she returns very dryly, “I wouldn’t say that in public. Stalking is not cool. I might have to arrest you.”

“Stalking Beckett-panther” – he has a sudden thought – “You know, you ought to have a name as a panther” –

“I do. Kate Beckett.”

“No, no, no. Like your cat is Onyx. Your panther ought to have a name. Ebony.”

“Ugh.”

“Adamantine.”

“Double ugh.”

“True. Your panther was all soft and receptive earlier. Mmmm. Um… Fatality. Lethality.”

“No!”

“But it’s true.”

“No.”

Castle ponders, totally distracted from his point by this interesting trail. “I know!” he bounces. “Black Death.”

“That was a disgusting plague that killed a third of the global population.”

“It didn’t.”

“There were lots of them. In the Middle Ages it killed around a third. Maybe more.”

Castle declines to argue further, because she’ll only go to Google and prove it. Beckett is far too fond of factual accuracy.

“But it’s accurate. You are black and you are deadly.”

“If you call me that I will break both your legs, and then you won’t be able to play chase.”

Castle pouts. “You’d miss out too.”

“Not as much as you would,” Beckett points out evilly.

“Oh? And why might that be?”

Castle spots an opportunity to begin. Beckett’s provided him with the perfect opening.

“I could sit on your lap…” she insinuates. “You wouldn’t have to go anywhere at all.”

He likes that idea. Possibly without the broken legs and attendant pain, however. Still, right now he has a different game in mind. He snuggles Beckett into his side in a semi-sensuous fashion.

“I thought there might be a different reason,” he says, and allows his fingers to wander over her waist and down on to her hip.

“Oh?”

“I thought that you might be thinking that I’d still be able to stroke you.” He carefully doesn’t mention which form he might stroke. “Like this,” he says, and walks his fingers back up to nestle just at the undercurve of her breast, with an occasional brief foray further upward.

“Could be arranged,” she says, her tone underlain with the first hints of arousal.

“Yes,” he drawls. “You like being stroked.”

“I’m a cat. Didn’t you notice? Cats like being stroked. Whatever form they’re in.”

“Do they indeed.” Which is not at all a question. He proceeds to prove the point by stroking a little more intently and a lot more wickedly. Beckett tries to retaliate, but Castle is feeling rather more alpha-male than usual, courtesy of the panther form and the thrill of the (sexual) chase, and he simply wants to possess – and elicit answers from – her. He lightly puts her hands behind her and holds them there in one wide span.  

She raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t bring my handcuffs.”

Castle’s eyes flare hotly. “Another time,” is all he says, and her eyes turn deep green, so he grips a little tighter, and takes her mouth. His hand plays far more possessively: cupping her firm breast, thumb rolling over the hard nipple and then repeating, one side then the other – wouldn’t want to miss one out – rubbing and stimulating, balancing her against the arm behind her and gradually pushing her backwards so that she’s a little arched towards him and gorgeously accessible. She flexes as he moves from her luscious mouth over her neck, lightly nipping at the sensitive spot so that she mewls, wanting more, but he wants to move downward.

Her t-shirt is in the way, but that’s an easy obstacle to overcome: it departs forthwith and leaves the pretty bra in which she’d begun the day (he really doesn’t know why she bothered with it but it sure looks good) on display, the coloured lace barely hiding anything and certainly not her excitement. Merely to continue the theme, he releases her hands for a moment to lift her and dispose of her soft cotton pants as well: the panties match the bra (they always have, for the few weeks he’s been able to observe – and oh, _how_ he has been observing), and then imprisons them again. In that instant, she’s flicked open his button-down, a naughty, sensual smile on her face which he simply has to kiss; and does.

“Wicked,” he rasps into her ear, and she merely wiggles against him. “I wanna play. You gonna let me play?”

“Maybe,” she husks. “Am I going to enjoy it?”

“Oh, yes. You will,” he promises, and begins in earnest.


	3. Chapter 3

He knows just how sensitive she is when he lavishes attention on her breasts, so that’s where he begins: nibbling and kissing down across her open throat, her head back as she had done in feline form to show her surrender to his body and touch; down over sharp, prominent clavicles, slipping on to the swell of breast and nipping gently to make her gasp. She arches to bring them to his mouth, and he’s pleased to oblige: drawing one peak into his mouth and sucking, rolling the nipple with his tongue and using mobile lips to tease the areola: moves across and does the same through the thin bra.

While his mouth is occupied, his free hand slips down to play across her taut stomach, flickering over the soft skin and lean muscle; the lithe form shifting under his firm touch; silent pleading for him to move lower. He smiles wolfishly against her breast and dips briefly lower, then returns to her stomach.

“Don’t tease,” she pleads.

“But I want to,” he says. “You’ll enjoy it,” and he does. His fingers dip down, but never for long enough; his mouth plays, but never quite hard or long enough.

“More, Castle,” she mewls: hot and wet and wound up and he isn’t giving her _enough_.

“Maybe…” he purrs into her ear. “You have to give me something first.”

“Wh- _ohhhh_ -at?”

“I think you’ve been keeping secrets,” he murmurs darkly. “You’ve not been telling me the truth.” His voice is a silky, dangerous weapon, and simply its wicked, midnight tone is winding her higher.

“Uh – _ohhhh_ do that again.”

He doesn’t. “But you’ve been hiding things from me.” He pauses, simply so that he can slip talented fingers over hot flesh and raw nerves.

“No- _ohh_ lies.”

“But secrets,” he insists. “Tell me your secrets.”

“Wha-at secrets – _ohhh_.”

He stops.

“Don’t _stop_.”

“I won’t stop if you answer me.”

“No- _oh_ -t fair,” emerges on a long breath.

“No fair you keeping secrets.”

“You keep secrets.”

“I don’t,” Castle says. “Well, except for the next book, but you read most of that anyway before I knew you were Onyx which was _totally_ cheating.”

“You didn’t tell me you wanted to date me,” she says, which is _entirely_ not true.

“Did so. You kept turning me down and then you turned into a _cat_ and cuddled up to me and totally stole my heart all over again and didn’t tell me it was you till I’d told you absolutely everything I felt. You stole all my secrets and now you’re keeping secrets from me.” He looks saintly. His fingers move like he’s Satan at his most seductive. She writhes and whimpers. He teases her till she’s barely able to talk, and stops again.

“You like it when I do that,” he says lazily. “Don’t you?” She doesn’t answer, being too busy remembering how to breathe. “If you don’t answer, I won’t do it any more.”

“Bully,” she forces out, followed on a breathy sigh by, “Don’t stop.”

He gives her just a little more. “Do you like it when I do that?”

“Yesssss,” and the sibilant slithers from her mouth as his fingers slither through her.

“Do you like it when I do this?” and he bends his head to her breast again until she can hardly form her assent.

“ _Yes_ ,” she half-cries out.

“As much as when I play with Onyx’s ears?” he murmurs, in the same dark, assertive tone as every other question.

“ _Yes_ ,” she moans. “Don’t stop!”

“You like my playing with Onyx’s ears?” he says as he plays with something else entirely.

“Yessss.”

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“Yessss – _ohhhhh_.”

He traces fingers through her some more: slipping over slick heat, dragging dampness over the nerves and building exquisite tension, deep pleasure and searing heat, till she’s forgotten the questions and the answers and what she’s been made to admit already and writhes and pleads for more, for everything, and his hands move in, and out, and over; a repetitive, controlled motion, touching the spot deep inside that takes her right to the edge.

“When I pet your ears you’re left just like this, aren’t you?” and he’s sure she doesn’t even think before her reply.

“Oh God yes don’t stop please,” and he doesn’t stop and she cries his name on a high note and comes hard around his hand.

While she’s still totally lax and blissed out he simply carries her upstairs (and thanks his stars for gym time and weight training) and deposits her on the bed while he strips (which she won’t thank him for, but too bad, she’ll see him strip plenty more at other times) and waits for her to recover, with a very satisfied smile. One theory proved, in the best _possible_ style.   Even better, she probably won’t even remember that she answered.

Now he knows that fondling her ears is blatantly sexual (well, he knew that already and it’s the same for him) _and_ that it makes her come, he is going to have considerable fun reminding her at a convenient moment. All he needs to do to follow up is do exactly the same about the brushing. Later. Or tomorrow. Because right here, right now, all he wants to do is take Beckett slowly, and thoroughly, and with all the power and passion and possessiveness at his experienced, extensive command.

He props himself up over her, sneaks an arm under her neck, and she wriggles into him with a wholly satisfied purr and drapes an arm and leg over him.

“You liked all of that,” and there’s a predatory note in his voice which she’s not heard yet, though it coats her synapses with sex and shivers her senses. She squirms against him, quite deliberately, and he unclasps her bra and slides her panties down so she’s as naked as he is and rolls her on to her back and rises over her, sliding thick weight across her and imprisoning her hands by her head: the knowing, heated look in her eyes a come-on in itself as she wraps her legs around his waist and welcomes the slow, powerful thrust that fills her: she’s tight and hot and wet around him and everything he’s ever dreamed of; everything he wants and needs: together they’re all in all to each other.

They fall asleep still wrapped together, as close as can be.

The next morning the weather is filthy. The temperature’s dropped, and it’s sleeting hard. Playing chase is quite definitely _off_ the erotic menu. Staying cuddled up under the quilt for some little time longer – simply _snuggling_ – seems like a much better plan. Castle nestles Beckett into his arms, makes sure he’s holding her comfortably, and closes his eyes again.

When he wakes again, he’s alone. This was not the plan. He humphs. Not only is he alone, but the space where Beckett ought to be is cool. She’s sneaked out of bed and left him. Humph, again. He _likes_ waking up with her in his arms, or furrily tucked into the perfectly sized hollow between his shoulder and neck. And the sleet is still lashing against the windows, which means there is still no chance of so much as sitting on the porch, never mind chasing Beckett through the woods.

He showers and shaves, dresses and fixes his hair to be beautifully groomed, and ambles downstairs. Beckett is not visible, the panther is not visible, and even Onyx is not visible. It’s very disappointing. He makes himself some coffee, finds a bagel and chews it slowly and dispiritedly. Beckett should be here. It’s not _fair_ that she’s sneaked off and left him all on his own in the deep dark woods. He even peeks outside to the porch, but there’s nothing there except puddles and the driving sleet. Not at all the place for a respectable feline.

Where would a respectable feline go? More to the point, how does – oh. _Silly Castle_ , he thinks. _You know how to find her_. He shifts to panther, sits silently, and listens, and sniffs the air. He can’t hear anything, but there’s a faint scent of cherries flavouring the air, trailing towards a closed door. He doesn’t remember her showing him that room – then again, they’ve been a little busy since they got here. He pads over to the door on massive, silent paws, stops just outside it, and listens with the cat’s ultra-sensitive ears. He doesn’t hear anything that’s worrying, so he nudges the door with a huge forepaw and pads in, still silent. He’s not sneaking. No. He does not sneak. He pads. Silently.

The scent of cherries is much stronger in this room. He prowls up to the bed, and raises his black head to inspect it. Beckett is lying on the bed, deep in a book. He plants his nose on her shoulder.   She squeaks loudly and jumps, which is deeply satisfying.

“That was mean!” she says. He jumps up on to the bed and pushes his large head into her neck, as she so often does to him as Onyx. It smells nice, and the skin is soft, and he rubs against her and she _giggles_ , veritably _giggles_ , and wriggles – she’s ticklish there, and his smooth pelt is tickling her so he does it some more and she squeaks and wriggles and tries to fight back and fails as he simply lies down over her middle and pushes his head into her hands because after all he likes his ears fondled too. Lots. So he is very pleased when she does. _Very_ pleased and very obviously pleased.

He changes back, realigns, and falls on her, hotly kissing her, hands everywhere and she curves to him and suddenly she’s as hot and fired up as he is and clothes are gone and bodies are hot and slick and intertwined and it’s hard and fast and he nips down on her shoulder and touches her intimately and she opens and pulls him to her and brings him in _ohhhh Beckett_ and then it’s all the heat and the depth and his strength and _her_ , always and only her.

“That was unexpected,” she smiles at him, mirth in the green-gold flecks of her eyes.

“You didn’t show me this room before.” Castle looks around it. “Was it yours?”

“Yes.”

“Mm. I should look around it. Understand baby Beckett and Rebel Becks.”

“Knock yourself out. Nothing to see.”

She’s right. There isn’t much to see. Bookshelves, with a mixture of children’s books and adult books (far fewer of those); a couple of knick-knacks, the bed they’re on, a closet and vanity unit. No posters, no photos, no pictures.

“I didn’t leave anything here, really. When I came up after… after Dad, and after Onyx,” she rushes out, and he understands that it was both escaping her father’s fall and allowing her other selves time to play, “then I started using upstairs. It was… it was closer to my parents” – he doesn’t miss the plural – “like it used to be.”

He softly brings her in and hugs her. “I get it,” he murmurs. “I get it, love.”

He only realises what he’s said when she stiffens and gasps and buries her head in his chest and holds him hard.

“I do, you know,” he whispers in her ear, as she burrows in, and prays harder than he ever, ever has.

“Me too,” she whispers back. “Love you too,” and though it would barely be audible by a bat on the ceiling, Castle hears it and hugs her tighter and closer and never, ever wants to let her go. They stay curled together for a long time.

Eventually, they unfurl and clean up, which takes a longer time than it should. The shower was not designed for two and the conditions are rather cramped. The only thing for it is to stay very close together.

After another soup-and-sandwiches lunch, the weather is still vile. The cabin is cosy and comfortable, the book in Beckett’s hands is absorbing her, the book in Castle’s head is absorbing him, and they are peaceful together.

Castle finishes a paragraph, and finds himself devoid of inspiration. Rapidly and inevitably, this leads to him being bored. Equally inevitably and rapidly, that boredom leads him to mischievous ideas. This time, he recalls that he wanted to know about Onyx-Beckett-brushing. He can’t play sexually teasing Twenty Questions again – she might spot what he’s doing, which would totally ruin his affectionate revenge, so he needs to think of another plan.

Ah. Oh, _yes_. Castle is consumed with his own brilliance. He rises, wanders off and finds the brush he uses to groom Onyx, and returns.

“Beckett,” he chirps, “Beckett, I’ve got an idea.” Delighted enthusiasm is not precisely the dominant expression on her visage. More like outright worry. “I don’t think it’s fair that you get brushed by me all the time and I never get a turn.” She looks less worried, and more intrigued. “I want a turn,” he pouts adorably. “If I change, will you brush me?”

“Only if you’re the cat. You won’t fit on my lap as a panther and I’m comfy here,” she says from her corner of the couch. “You got the brush?”

“Right here,” Castle says, and tosses it to her, absolutely confident that she’ll catch it. She does, picking it out of the air with ease.

“Okay, up you come.”

Castle becomes the large domestic cat – he’s about the size of a middling Maine Coon, which breed, he had discovered by a little simple research, does come in a pure black form. They don’t have blue eyes, though. Then again, nor do panthers. He guesses that’s just part of the magic – and leaps up into Beckett’s lap. She oofs. He turns around a couple of times, and then settles down, splayed out, paws on the couch and body across her legs. She automatically strokes his flank, and it’s just so _good_ he wonders why he doesn’t use this form more. The rumbling purr requires no thought at all.

And then she brushes evenly along his body and it is _wonderful_. Oh oh _oh oh oh_! Oh wow. Oh, _Beckett!_ Don’t ever stop. No wonder she likes this.   This is arousal on amphetamines; seduction on speed; hotness on heroin. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. He’s purring so loudly the cabin might collapse. More more more. He’s utterly blissed out. On balance it’s just as well she’s wearing sweats, because this is all going to be hot and messy _oh god oh god right now ohhhhhh_.

“Why’d you never tell me it was like _that_?” he blurts out, back to human. “Being brushed is _amazing_ and you didn’t tell me. You kept it all for yourself and that’s _unfair_.”

Beckett blushes brighter than the fire burning in the stove, and even more hotly.

“First you don’t tell me that fondling your Onyx-ears makes you come and then you don’t tell me about brushing and you’ve been stealing orgasms all the time and _not telling me_ ,” he pouts. “See, you were keeping secrets.”

“I didn’t steal them, you were giving them away,” Beckett humphs.

“Not the point. You kept secrets. Unkind.”

“How was I keeping secrets when I didn’t know it would happen? I never knew petting my ears had that effect, or brushing. I can’t pet my own ears” – Castle sniggers at the thought – “or brush myself, can I?” She has a sudden thought. “How do you know about the ears. I didn’t tell you!”

Castle smirks evilly. “You did. You told me yesterday.”

Beckett thinks, and then turns a fascinatingly lurid hue. “You sneaky _rat_!” she cries. “You unscrupulous _ass_.”

“You like my ass, unscrupulous or not,” Castle points out annoyingly.

“Now who’s been unfair? You seduced me till I couldn’t even think” –

“It was wonderful,” he says happily. “Shall we do it again?”

Beckett growls fearsomely and then, totally embarrassed, turns into Onyx and turns a very sulky back to Castle, curling her tail around her.

“That won’t work,” he says in an infuriating tone of sweet reason. “All I need to do is brush you or play with your ears and you’ll be totally happy and affectionate again. Wholly satisfied, I might say.” He smiles in a saintly fashion. Onyx continues to present her back and ignore him in favour of some dignified paw-washing. Castle simply picks her up and plops her in his lap, intending to coax her into a better mood with some petting and brushing.

The flaw in his timing and reasoning is revealed half an instant later when he has a lapful of annoyed panther, displaying not just a mouthful of rather sharp teeth but four pawfuls of very large claws, which run in and out in a meaningful way in time with the angry lashing of her tail. Castle lets go, very fast. He doesn’t think that panther-Beckett would bite him, or scratch – but he’s not quite positive about that. She growls, and removes herself from his lap, and stalks away.

“Why are you sulking?” he asks. “You’re the one who kept secrets. It’s not my fault if you’re embarrassed about it.”

She turns her back again. It’s very childish, and quite adorable, if you ignore the lethal claws and teeth. Castle wanders off to find his laptop and is shortly tapping contentedly, lost in the next phase of his story. Beckett lies down in front of the stove with her head on her paws and appears to be (sulkily) at rest.

Castle extracts himself from the realms of creativity and finds that panther-Beckett is sleeping: curled cat-like in front of the warmth of the stove. He settles himself beside her, and strokes, staying clear of her ears, and not brushing her. Eventually a green eye opens, and the panther’s deadly gaze focuses on him.

“C’mon,” he coaxes. “Don’t be sulky.” She bares her teeth, with the hint of a growl. “You know you are. Just because I worked it out, you’re cross. You shouldn’t be. Now I know it turns you on, I can do it with intent.” He grins, as happy as a child with a new toy. “You know how much you like me turning you on.”

His hands keep stroking the lithe length of lethality, not making the mistake of trying to seduce her out of her – wholly unnecessary – sulks. Those teeth and claws are scary. He has an idea, and suddenly he tucks his panther-self alongside her, warm against her silky-furred flank, pressing just a fraction; and then he nuzzles at her neck affectionately and rumbles happily deep in his chest. If he could speak in this form, it would be _c’mon, be nice, you know you’re being a little silly, love_.

She semi-growls, and he nuzzles some more, nips assertively at her neck: alpha-male of their pairing – and she surrenders to the cat rather than the human in her; relaxes beside him and there’s a tiny, barely-there purr and a tiny, barely-there nuzzle to his neck and, though it’s hardly a feline gesture, he puts a paw over her shoulders in order to pull her closer. It’s awkward, and uncomfortable, and he stops: instead twines his tail with hers and tugs very gently till she nestles in and their fur merges into one sweep of midnight, gleaming in the light from the stove. They stay like that for a while, until she gently nips at him and turns back to Beckett to fondle his ears until he’s hopelessly aroused and she tells him to change and then he’s hers.

“My Beckett,” he rumbles. “My Beckett who lets me catch her. My Beckett who loves being brushed and her ears fondled and her breasts kissed” – she mews softly, and squirms closer – “and my fingers touching her like this” – her mewl is louder, and his fingers glisten in the soft light from the stove – “or this” – it’s a moan, now – “and loves me doing this” – he rises above her in the firelight, a dark shadow looming over her, and slides slowly to fill her – “and just” –

“loves you,” she says, and pulls him down.

**_Fin._ **


End file.
